


Mirrors of light

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bird Qrow, Bird Shenanigans, Birds, Breakfast in Bed, Cat Cuddles, Cats, Christmas Presents, Churches & Cathedrals, Desperate Measures, Enemies to Lovers, Fall of Beacon (RWBY), First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, IronQrow Week 2021, Kleptomania, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Nothing Hurts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romantic Fluff, Sick Character, Spy Qrow, bird like behaviour, enemies to enemies with benefits, shiny things, soft men being soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28731192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Qrow keeps those new, borrowed trinkets because he cares, because this is his starry sky, because perhaps constellations do connect them through the darkness of night, and James isn’t as lonely as he thought, James’s feelings aren’t as unreciprocated as he thought. Qrow keeps pieces of James because he cares. And if this is not love, James does not know what is.Or Elz tries to do IronQrow week 2021!Different rating at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	1. Something new, something borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, first day and I'm already late. Worry not, the next couple of days are already written so I should be able to get back on track. I just wrote them a bit out of order.
> 
> Day 1: New additions/Old favourites  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings for this chapter: mention of past alcoholism and withdrawal

Qrow’s heart must feel lighter now, James realises. Now he gave his flask up, it must be easier to spread his wings and take flight, without that heavy keepsake weighing him down. 

James’s heart feels lighter, too, almost giddy since his long-time friend came back, to see the shapeshifter finally letting go of those habits that haunted him for decades. And at the same time - James’s heart feels heavy. He and Qrow had gifted each other those shiny metal flasks, those matching flasks they used to keep close, to keep warm near their hearts. Ironwood has always treasured his own among his old favourites, treasured its steady, familiar weight inside his pocket, against his thrumming prosthetics, against his scarred heartbeat. But now Qrow let go of the past to keep moving on, and the General can only watch with a heavy heart. At least, it does not feel unwelcome to be reminded James has a heart. 

James has a heavy heart - but at least his pockets are a bit lighter. His coat is a bit lighter. The weight of the world on his shoulders is a bit lighter. He has noticed some of the steel buttons have fallen and gone missing. Usually, he has a keen eye for detail - he would notice the dropped button immediately, notice when things break out of symmetry, out of control. He would spot the shiny item on the floor or on his chair immediately, and sew it back exactly where it belonged. 

But lately, buttons have tended to vanish, never to be found again. Small screws and bolts from his prosthetics, too. Not that it matters much. He has spares. He always has spares. He is always prepared. He is not too worried, only curious about the mysterious disappearance cases. Perhaps one of Qrow’s mischievous flock of children is playing pranks, or has a borderline case of kleptomania. Maybe he should keep an eye on them, even though he is certain the scythe-wielder already does. 

But even Qrow cannot always keep his eyes open, and even Qrow needs rest sometimes. In fact, it amazes James how quickly Qrow can fall asleep, hiding his withdrawal-induced exhaustion as he and the General enthusiastically chat into the early hours of the morning in Ironwood’s living room. James went into the kitchen to make more tea, and returned to find his friend sound asleep, artfully sprawled across the armchair. 

A minute earlier, his voice was lively as he recounted his adventures, his eyes were soft and sparkling with a new shade of vermillion that promises cloudless sunrises, a new shade James is just getting used to. And yet, now he’s already quietly snoring, his arms hanging under his head, his lengthy legs spread haphazardly across the furniture, one slung across the armrest and the other touching the floor. Apparently, Qrow is as remarkably flexible in sleep as he is on the battlefield, and that sight reminiscent of cats that can fall asleep under every possible, every utterly improbable angle brings a fond smile to James’s features.

To be fair, Ironwood has never seen Qrow sit straight, even while awake. Not that James should be the one to judge, since there is not much that is straight about the General himself. Still, sleeping like that cannot be good for the shapeshifter’s back. Exhaling a long sigh, James collects his friend off the furniture, careful not to wake him as his head lolls into the crook of the headmaster’s neck, feathery hair tickling his bearded jaw. 

For James, this burden is light enough, infinitely lighter than the weight of the world that always rests atop his shoulders. So light in fact that it would hardly be an effort to carry Qrow all the way back to his own quarters. However, the sight of the General of the Atlesian army lifting an unconscious Huntsman bridal style around the corridors could cause murmurs and gossip, so James has to settle for bringing Qrow to his own bed. Ironwood can deal with sleeping on the couch tonight. His back will not complain too much - after all, compared to carrying the weight of the world, surviving a night on the sofa cannot be all that hard. 

But as he sets Qrow down in the bed, something tumbling out of the shifter’s waistcoat draws the General’s attention. Where his flask used to be stored, now there is something else. Something new. Something nowhere near as heavy, something stored in a small dark pouch. James should not look. James must not look. James shall not look… and yet, it aches him not to know what replaces the precious present he had gifted Qrow near the scythe-wielder’s heart, now. It aches him not to know, especially if his friend replaced the liquor with something else that may hurt his heart - James needs to know. 

He yearns to know, he craves to know, he needs to know. He needs everything to be known, chartered, everything to be under control, he wants no terra incognita, no smidge of starlight unmapped amidst the constellations. But the bag black as night does not contain stars. It contains shiny things, but not stars. Pins, hair clips, and broken earrings from the kids, bolts, buttons and screws, but not stars. Buttons eerily similar to the ones fallen from Jimmy’s uniform into utter oblivion, screws that fit perfectly into the joints of the General’s right hand prosthetic.

A second elapses, then another, before realisation dawns like a shooting star. 

Qrow keeps pieces of James because he cares. James scans all the possibilities, evaluates all the probabilities, and that is the only logical conclusion he cannot rule out. Qrow keeps those new, borrowed trinkets because he cares, because this is his starry sky, because perhaps constellations do connect them through the darkness of night, and James isn’t as lonely as he thought, James’s feelings aren’t as unreciprocated as he thought. Qrow keeps pieces of James because he cares. And if this is not love, James does not know what is.

James wants to be sure, he wants, craves, needs to know what love is, but it is getting late, and he should not invade Qrow’s privacy anymore, and his heart sinks at that thought. So he retires to the couch in the living room, ideas swirling like turbulent stardust in his mind. But as soon as his back touches the cushions, all considerations of what love may or may not be are overruled by deep, much-needed sleep.

* * *

James wakes to a warm, delectable scent caressing his nostrils. He does not recognise it immediately - instead he floats, eyes still shut amidst the endless, starry space between wakefulness and dreams, the endless, blissful space his exhausted body and soul wish to never leave. The air around him smells delicious, the pillows on the couch under his back are soft as clouds, and he could stay like this forever. The weight of the world can float blissfully beside him for an instant, the ending of his known universe could be the worn edge of the sofa for an instant. 

Yet, all instants must come to an end. 

Especially since his nostrils eventually recognise the smell of pancakes. 

He should get up for pancakes. He should really get up for pancakes. He has not had them for a while, hence the time it took him to identify the hot fragrance. The hot fragrance, surrounding an equally hot cook in his kitchen. 

Qrow, looking especially dashing in an oversized apron embroidered with the words ‘best uncle’, gifted from Penny to Ironwood, is making pancakes in the kitchen. Qrow, wearing the apron and not much else, is making pancakes in the kitchen. 

“Hey Jimmy, stay back if you don’t want bad luck to set your kitchen on fire.”

The shifter’s promptness to blame everything on his Semblance causes a tightness at Jimmy’s throat, but the General knows misfortune tends to affect others in Qrow’s vicinity, so he obeys for the sake of not being scolded with ‘I told you so’.

“Good morning to you too, Qrow. The pancakes smell delicious.”

“I got some of the jam I made earlier in the week from my fridge to eat with them, I thought you might like it. Consider it a gift to say I’m sorry for falling asleep and crashing at your place at night.”

“No problem at all… is it strawberry jam?”

“You know me too well, Jimmy jammy.”

The General huffs at the nickname, but does not comment. 

“Summer’s recipe?” he wonders instead, reminiscing fond memories.

“Yup. The pancakes are new though. I might have learnt a thing or two from Ren and the rest of the kids on the journey, when it comes to cooking.”

“Then I’m impatient to try them.”

“Patience, big boy. I just gotta get that spatula and… why is that spatula hanging so gods-damned high...”

More at ease in the kitchen designed for his tall stature, James reaches for the spatula and hands it to the shapeshifter. 

And then, multiple things happen. 

As Qrow swivels around, the utensil lightly pokes him in the chest, causing something to drop out of his breast pocket and tumble to the floor with a loud clink. He steps forward to grab the spatula, but slips on the fallen object and almost falls to the cold tiled floor. Almost falls, weren’t it for the General’s strong arms catching him and straightening him back to his feet. 

“Bad luck,” the shapeshifter groans. “Told you so.”

“Fortunately, I was here to catch you. Besides, you only tripped on a jacket button, heavy injuries would have been unlikely.”

“A... button? How do you know it’s a button? You barely looked at it.”

Before he can even think, James formulates the only logical answer in his mind. 

“It’s the only of your trinkets that’s heavy enough to make that sound. It was one of those from my collar, the angular ones. I remember that particular button, you know. I remember it was slightly damaged at the bottom. Look, this corner is a bit more rounded, the whole thing has some of its symmetry. I got the button replaced with a spare on my uniform, but the imperfections were different. It was never the same exactly.”

To demonstrate, he picks up the metal trinket and delicately positions it atop Qrow’s palm, closing his friend’s hand so he can feel each asperity and irregularity marring the smooth metal. 

“I know,” the shapeshifter mumbles, staring at the shiny object and away from the Atlesian soldier. “That corner was softer. It was… reassuring, like a softer side of you...”

Qrow trails off as if he realises he spoke an unspeakable secret. This time, there is no logical answer. No logical answer, even in James’s wildest hopes and dreams that his feelings may be requited...

“Qrow, do you mean that you feel the same as -”

“Who gives you the right to assume how I feel?” the scythe-wielder snaps suddenly. “Who gives you the right to look through my personal belongings when I was asleep and know what the heaviest and lightest things are among the new additions to my collection? Every single human and robot in this kingdom may be under your orders, Jimmy, but that does not give you the right to control every aspect of my life and to invade my privacy like that.”

“I was worried for you. I was worried...”

“I can handle myself, James. I’m not one of your little tin soldiers, nor am I one of your pieces of sentient garbage.”

There is a brokenness in Qrow’s features, a brokenness that distorts symmetry, that distorts perfection. There is a sign of obvious hurt that his feelings were unveiled, that his emotions were on display for James’s eyes to witness. 

“Qrow, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You know what? I’m sorry too.”

And with that, Qrow vanishes into a flurry of feathers, escaping out the nearest window. James remains dumbfounded for long instants, before remembering to extract the pancakes from the pan before they can burn. 

* * *

James’s work day is just another work day, his uniform is just as symmetrical. He adjusts his tie exactly in the middle between two meetings, but cannot help check his scroll and try to make amends with his old friend. 

_James: Hello Qrow. Just to repeat I owe you my deepest apologies for breaching your privacy and making assumptions about aspects of your private life. I acted out of paranoia and selfishness, and I deeply regret my behaviour. I do not expect you to accept my apologies, but please just text me to let me know you are alright._

A few minutes elapse, in weightless anticipation without the reassuring ding of an answer. 

_James: Sorry. Of course you are not alright, as a result of my foolish behaviour. Please know that this is okay with me. Please know that I respect your feelings, even if I may not understand exactly how you feel._

A few minutes, bleeding into hours, painfully long hours. 

_James: If you are worried that your collection revealed some of your personal feelings you would rather have kept hidden, rest assured I find absolutely nothing shameful or harmful in the way you feel, if I interpret it correctly. On the contrary, if I understand well and you have affections for me, you will find that these affections are fully reciprocated. I have cared for you for a long time, since we got those matching flasks at least, and I still care deeply today._

_James: Qrow, I love you._

James is not the best at interpersonal communication. Qrow even says sometimes that he needs to be reminded where the send button is. James prefers to be blunt to make sure he is understood, but he cannot help the churning feeling in his half-metal abdomen that says he may have horrendously misread the situation. Maybe Qrow does not like him back at all. Maybe his alcohol withdrawal merely reinforced the twinkle of shiny things in his newly sharpened vision, and enhanced some of his slightly kleptomaniac tendencies. Maybe James made a fool of himself confessing his love, but James is not afraid of being seen as a fool. James is not afraid of anything, as long as the weight of the world is safe on his shoulders and Qrow is happy. 

But Qrow is not happy, and he has not replied or given any news, not until the evening when James finally returns to his quarters after a long day of official meetings. Not until the General fumbles with the keys and unlocks the door, only to find Qrow standing inside, having flown in through a window whose curtains still float like ocean waves in the breeze. 

“Good evening, Qrow. I’m reassured to see you’re well, but could you at least close the window to avoid wasting thermal energy? All of the heating in Atlas uses fire Dust, which is quite costly as I’m sure you -”

The General cannot finish, interrupted by a sound kiss squarely on the mouth. Qrow’s lips are soft, if slightly chapped, they taste like snowy Atlas winds and pancakes with strawberry jam and unexpected outcomes and improbable, almost hopeless dreams. James remains frozen for a second of utter shock before Qrow tentatively tries to pull away. Tries to, but to no avail. For strong metal and flesh hands draw him back in, gently placed at the small of his back, while the Atlesian’s lips respond eagerly, claiming, chartering, cartographing each corner of the shapeshifter’s mouth. 

The kiss was meant to be chaste, both of them faintly register at some point, but they have long forgotten that by the time their old lungs beg them to regretfully part in order to breathe. By that time, James’s hands rest at the shifter’s hip bones, where harsh lines meld into soft curves like the wings of a bird about to take flight. Qrow’s fingers cup the General’s bearded jaw and tangle into his hair, rummaging through his soft beard as if lovingly cartographing some unknown, snowy forest.

“I love you too, Jimmy,” Qrow speaks finally, as their eyes bashfully meet.

At those simple words, James’s heart drops, James’s heart soars, everything falls exactly into place, into its rightful place, but James does not know what to say.

“I didn’t dare hope you would say that, even in my wildest dreams, up until recently.”

“I know it helped you finally realise we could be a thing, with that thick skull of yours, but I’m sorry for stealing your shiny stuff.”

“Atlesian military uniforms are property of the state, stealing it is punishable by the law. But it’s okay, we’ll just need to work on your magpie tendencies.”

They are not perfect, their love is not perfect, neither of them are perfect and both have things to work on, both of them have scars that ruin perfection, ruin symmetry, and those scars do not match, those cracks do not fit. Yet, there is nowhere else they would rather be in all of Remnant than here, now, warm in each other’s embrace.

“Yeah, I know, Jimmy, I just need to work on - oh, look, shiny!”

And reaching up on tiptoes, Qrow deposits a gentle peck atop the silvery metal above his lover’s brow.

“Sorry”, the shifter says, “I’ve always wanted to do that, pretty much since the day I met you.”

“You are fully forgiven. But only if you let me treat you to dinner and let me kiss you again.”

“Deal.”


	2. Shadow of a dragon, whispers of a hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Bad Luck Charm/Hero
> 
> After the fall of Beacon, James feels like his very presence, his very mistakes were the worst luck Beacon could have had, but at least Qrow was there to save him, to save everyone, to be everyone's hero. James may not be Beacon's hero, but he is Qrow's hero tonight, and perhaps that is all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter: M  
> Warnings: non explicit sexy times, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of death

It is dark outside. Even in the dark, the shadow of the petrified dragon atop Beacon’s tower still casts a dark shadow over the city, against the backdrop of the shattered moon. 

The streets are empty, scarred, shattered. The civilians were moved to safe zones. The last Grimm are being cleared… for now. The last Huntsmen are still standing, the bullets of Due Process still singing through the air, the deadly blade of Harbinger still dancing as it swings toward its umpteenth enemy… for now. 

Qrow saw Yang being tended to by the paramedics, the red, the warmth of her leaking out of where her arm once was. Qrow saw Ruby, comatose at the top of the tower when he found her among the ashes and debris. Qrow saw both his nieces, battered and lifeless. Qrow saw Ozpin, and knows Ozpin is… gone. They know it is only temporary, but it is like when he loses a feather. Another will regrow in its place, but that particular feather has fallen forever, the imperfections of it, the iridescent shine it is never the same when the feather grows back. And that hurts.

Yet Qrow is still standing there, still fighting alongside Ironwood while Glynda protects the terrified civilians at the safe zone, while Port and Oobleck finish clearing out the Colosseum. 

There is still a savage grace to the way he fights, twirling his heavy scythe as though it weighs no more than a feather. There is still a lethal speed to his strikes, slicing effortlessly through monsters that still snarl and growl as they vanish. James cannot help but notice that, respect that, admire that force that keeps Qrow moving forward no matter what. But James also cannot help noticing the way Qrow walks down the empty street they just cleared out with the stiffness of an automaton, with his crimson eyes devoid of light and his head behind them even emptier, as stiff as James’s robot soldiers Qrow liked to call sentient garbage. 

James wishes he had listened to Qrow. As he follows the shapeshifter down a street Qrow seems to know, a street his feet seem to automatically, mindlessly tread, he wishes he had listened, he wishes he had retreated his troops, his knights, his paladins. His own army, hacked and turned against civilians and Huntsmen, turning the tide to Salem’s favour, his own mistakes, his own hubris was the worst luck Beacon had ever had. Qrow may call himself a bad luck charm, but James’s very presence at the Vytal Festival is the worst luck Beacon could possibly have had.

Qrow may call himself a bad luck charm, but he was the one who saved James. He was the one who found and saved Ruby. He was the one who saved everyone. Beacon’s saviour, Beacon’s hero. Ironwood’s hero. So the least the General can do is show gratitude, show support, and be a shoulder for the scythe-wielder to lean on as he drunkenly stumbles down the disfigured street, in search of some nearby bar he used to know. 

Qrow used to know the place. The name was some terrible pun, the TV was always on, the barista was always dapper. Now the metal sign over the door is slanted, the chairs are knocked over, the glass front is shattered into a myriad of sharp shards. But at least no one else is there, everyone is in the safe zone already, so the shifter can just pour himself a drink.

James is a shoulder to lean on, the shadow of a hero, the shadow that follows his hero and saviour everywhere, in everything, pouring glass after glass, drinking drink after drink. Neither of them can see straight, but at least Qrow has a partner in his self-destructive endeavour this time, Qrow is not alone.

The darkness that surrounds Qrow’s long, lithe limbs, the shadow that heavily hangs off each and every of his stuttering gestures is unfathomable. The darkness is tense, warm, awkward. The darkness is thick, heavy, nervous and rife with sparks when James’s flesh knee touches Qrow’s as they both reach for another bottle atop precarious bar stools, as if drawn into the collision by a stroke of bad luck, by an inevitable gravity. 

Qrow does not lean into James as much as he crumples onto him in a haphazard, yet graceful arch. Qrow does not allow the General’s knee between his legs as much as he tiredly swivels around and that is how they end up, accidentally entangled, inexorably entangled. Of course, the shapeshifter could disengage from the contact. But as long as they remain like this, as long as strong metal and muscle hold him, hugging him back in a tight embrace, he is not alone, he does not have to be alone.

At some point, clothes become a barrier, for erratically, relentlessly dry humping Ironwood’s thigh is not enough for Qrow. He does not feel enough, his fuzzy mind does not sense enough to dispel the alcohol-addled numbness. But clothes are but meagre obstacles on their way. The headmaster easily unbuttons the shifter’s shirt, trailing down wet kisses that taste like liquor. James’s shirt is already in shreds, so ripping it off is hardly a sacrifice. His pale uniform pants are a torn tatter of white, soon discarded in the floor into a splodge of light.

Ordinarily, the rather public setting would have concerned them, perhaps even egged them on, from what each of them has gathered about the other’s taste throughout the instants of drunken stupor they spent mapping each other’s bodies, blanking out each other’s minds. But now they are too tired, now they are too broken to consider the improbable eventuality that some stray soul may see them, now they are too shattered to think of anything else but the searing contact between their skins, forgetting the surroundings, the shadows, even the weight of Remnant that rests upon their shoulders. Right now Qrow’s fingers even forget if they are rummaging over sleek steel or if they are running across soft skin, along sprawling scars like shattered lightning - Qrow forgets, and James does too.

Qrow drinks to forget the pain, to forget the loneliness, to forget the loved ones he lost, to forget Summer, Ozpin, to forget his nieces are in coma, to forget those loved ones he may still lose. Qrow drinks until there is a blissful numbness between his eyes, and all he cannot forget is the numbness. In the numbness, he does not want to be alone, for he needs to be distracted, to fill the numbness with something, with anything. And James is there for him, to hold him and to fill him to the utmost point until he forgets the numbness, the darkness, the emptiness within him, until all of him is filled with the scent of James, the touch of James, until all of him is filled with James, just James, only James.

There is obstinate violence in the way they touch - tsweaty, scarred limbs awkwardly tangled, angles of sharpness and abstractness riding into the distant sunrise. There is accidental violence in the way they kiss - in their drunken state, they cannot remember how their lips ended up connected, but now they collide again and again, hotly, sloppily. It is a clash of tongues and teeth, even though it is not a battle. They have fought enough battles, lost enough battles tonight. James has lost enough battles, and he eagerly lets Qrow take control over the kiss too. 

James comes to Qrow to feel challenged and vanquished, to receive the rightful punishment for his faults, for the bad luck he brought, for failing to heroically carry the weight of the world alone. Qrow comes to James to be filled, not to feel numb, not to feel fear, fear of being left alone, not to feel alone.

When they are finally spent, when the darkness and the void of the endless cosmos are finally filled with stars, James has his face pressed to Qrow’s hair, whispering sweet, meaningless nothings through feathery strands streaked with silver. The General’s tone sounds almost loving. But this is not love, this is just haphazard contact, brutal contact, desperate to leave bruises, to fill the void with something, with anything to keep their minds off everything and everyone they failed to save. Anything to keep their minds off the loved ones they lost, off Oz, off Penny, off the loved ones they could still lose, off Yang, off Ruby, off the world that lay broken at their feet as planets drop out of their orbits, as stars shatter out of their constellations.

This is not love, this is just James doing whatever little he can to help, to show a little gratitude when he heroically carries Qrow to bed, the scythe-wielder finally being too drunk and tired to walk. This is not love as he wipes off the tears straying from fascinating vermillion eyes. This is not love when Ironwood utters a whispered promise to see what he can do for Yang, for her arm, the haunting ghost of how he got his own prosthetics only too present in his mind. This is just James doing his best, when he pulls the blankets over Qrow’s weakly protesting form, begging him to rest for the sunrise is nearing, and tomorrow will be a long day. 

This is not love, even though perhaps at the back of his drunken mind James wishes it were. Perhaps for another day, in another time and space. But for now, though James may not be Beacon's hero, he is Qrow's hero tonight, and perhaps that is all that matters, perhaps for now that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a shorter one, but at least it's not late. Don't worry, tomorrow will be less angsty and more soft men being soft!


	3. Skies of water, skin on fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Stormy Weather/After The Rain
> 
> James is a little under the weather. Fortunately, Qrow is there to lend a helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: none  
> yeah this is just some soft fluff to make up for yesterday, hope y'all enjoy :)

“A bit rusty, aren’t we?” Qrow smirks as he offers James a hand to haul him up, having managed to knock the General off balance with the transforming blade of Harbinger after a hard-fought round of sparring. 

Ironwood grins back from the cold floor, reaching out to grab Qrow’s fingers - and gives a sharp tug, relying on the weight of his metal half-body to drag his sparring partner down and pin him to the ground.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” James teases back with a playfully triumphant smile, eliciting a small chuckle from Qrow.

Both of them are keenly aware of the proximity between their bodies, of the entangled mess of limbs they form. 

“No, not your fighting skills. Your arm, more literally.”

James winces. Qrow’s right. Rust has crusted around the joint of his shoulder, where he cannot look easily, but he can hear it whining when he moves, and he can feel the rough patches of irregularity while trying to smoothly rotate his arm. He should have taken better care of the coating on his prosthetics to prevent that from happening, if only he hadn’t been so busy and work, and if only...

“Right,” the General admits. “Atlas has been rainy lately.”

“And you haven’t taken the time to keep your metal side dry and well-treated.”

“Well, I’ve been busy with overseeing the tower launch site out on the tundra and… how did you guess?”

The scythe-wielder gives a small shrug as James loosens his grip, allowing him to sit up next on the floor of the empty training room, only lit by dim cyan lines of light at this late time of the night.

“I’ve noticed it’s a little less shiny than usual,” Qrow says. “You’re less shiny than usual.”

A skeptical pause.

“Ah. Okay.”

“Come here.”

A mischievous twinkle in red eyes, like a lone star in the night, before the Huntsman beckons Ironwood closer, motioning him to peel off his jacket to have a look at the rusty shoulder. However; James soon startles at the shrill sound of steel being scratched. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Scraping the rust off. Lemon juice and baking soda usually do the trick. Always works for Harbinger, at least. Does it hurt?”

“No.”

The shapeshifter huffs, scrubbing a little harder, determined to keep the General nice and shiny as he senses James is entirely not speaking mind. He has known James for too long not to recognise when the General is uncomfortable. The sharp scent of lemon and vinegar saturates the room, vaguely irritating their nostrils in the tense quietness.

“But?”

“In the long run, this will weaken the steel. I would rather have that plate replaced.”

“Would it hurt?”

“No.”

“... yeah, it would,” he retorts, seeing straight through the General’s stoic response. 

“Yes, it would.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to get it replaced now, you can do it later. It’s okay to be weakened sometimes. It’s okay not to always be strong and stainless all the time. Even the best of us slip up every so often.”

James arches a brow that almost touches the metal band on his forehead.

“Are you talking about yourself?”

“Maybe.”

The General can practically hear the shapeshifter winking just from the tone of his voice. They have known one another for too long, way too long.

“So what do you suggest, Qrow?”

“Let’s clean the rust off that plate, and then let’s get you wrapped in a blanket. You have a temperature, must be because of staying out so long in the rain.”

Deft, calloused digits wander off rusty metal to caress soft, scarred skin, tracing down the creases and folds like a river searches for the ocean. Qrow’s fingers are cold, the air is cold, everything is cold, and Qrow isn’t wrong, James’s skin must be on fire. Despite his best efforts to ignore it, the headmaster can still sense a lingering headache pulsating at his temples. 

“But what about my meetings?” Ironwood counters. “What will people think? That the General of Atlas survived losing half his body and came back stronger, but is on bed rest for staying out under a little rain?”

Qrow’s gentle chuckle sounds like thunder muffled in soft velvet.

"Hey, it's okay to be under the weather sometimes. You've been overworking yourself lately, and your body needs rest, and that's okay too. You can’t be a hero all the time -”

“But Atlas needs a hero.”

“And you need to rest, and I need to take care of you.”

Gentle touches slowly turn into a soft massage, and James can barely muster the courage to complain.

“That doesn’t make sense. That would only increase your chances of getting the cold I caught.”

“Then I look forward to you taking care of me.”

That doesn’t make any sense either. Unless… no, not even in James’s wildest dreams, for James is not brave enough to even dare hope...

“Are you implying -”

Instead of a response, a soft kiss is placed atop James’s cheekbone. The touch is cold, fleeting, lighter than a melting snowflake in the storm, but it means more than words can convey, more than dreams dare hope, more than dreams dare dream. It means love and adoration and concern and respect and admiration and love, more love than James has allowed himself to feel in a lifetime condensed in an infinitesimal instant.

“Yes. That’s what I’m implying…” Qrow replies, his features shifting suddenly at the General’s lack of reaction. “Oh my gods. Dammit! Did I misread things? I’m so, so sorry… Jimmy, I just thought… I mean, I just hoped… just tell me if...”

James wants to respond, but he isn’t sure what to say. Sometimes when one is used to carrying the weight of the world, the added weight of even a tiny, melting snowflake can be too much. Sometimes James realises Qrow can help him lift the weight, but it hurts Ironwood to selfishly let the shapeshifter shoulder it with his frail wings and hollow bones as he soars through stormy skies. Sometimes the hardest, most heroic part is accepting help, accepting love, and sometimes James is afraid, sometimes he is terrified to fail, to fall, and hurt Qrow in his fall.

But sometimes, he has to be brave.

“No. You didn’t misread,” he states. “And yes, I will take care of you if you get sick, and whenever you get sick.”

Qrow smiles, accumulated tension finally fading from his body, and Ironwood would give anything to see that smile more often. Gentle kisses that rain down James’s face, his cheeks, his neck, like so many cold droplets that tame the fire inside him, falling as surely as gravity, and neither of them would have it any other way.

“Great,” Qrow comments. “So now I can kiss you and not worry about being alone when I get sick.”

“Please, Qrow. Please do.”

The shapeshifter is rarely one to follow orders, but just this once he can make an exception, promptly leaning in to press their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep rubbing Qrow, gotta keep the boyfriend nice and shiny!  
> Literally posted at the last minute of 14/01 for me, phew! Hopefully I'll do better tomorrow


	4. Caster of shadows, sculptor of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Historical/Futuristic
> 
> Qrow is a sculptor who doesn't really see the point of stained glass windows. James is a blacksmith who assembles stained glass windows for a living, and has heard that Qrow brings bad luck and annoying birds everywhere he goes. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: mentions of injuries and PTSD, the smallest mention of implied sexual abuse in the background, two or three words that vaguely imply homophobia, artistic license when it comes to historical accuracy. This is inspired by several real and fictional stories about the construction of cathedrals over a handful of centuries, but obviously the actual events are a figment of my puny imagination.

From the inside looking up, the cathedral reminds James of the forest he grew up in. 

The stone pillars are tree trunks, tall, strong, proud, the wooden support beams are branches, radiating out at every angle to carry the stone ceiling and towers, and through the windows the light pours in, gentle, golden, each ray illuminating the dust particles that drift and dance softly, safely, weightlessly. 

Making stained glass panels is the art of taming colour, of sculpting light, of carving shadows. Carving shadows is what James does for a living, these days. There is a practised precision to how he exerts his craft, to how he curves and molds the iron while it is still hot, incandescent sparks flying under the powerful pulsation of his hammer, falling as surely as gravity. There is a meticulous miracle when he adjusts the pieces of colourful glass between the fragments of metal he casts, and vibrant scenes come to life through the fragile equilibrium of a translucent window.

James holds his breath, his nervous heart missing a beat in the near-perfect stillness as the panel is adjusted into the stone ogive that will house it. Everything must be perfect. Nothing must go wrong. The stars must perfectly line up. A stroke of bad luck, a stray star ever so slightly out of perfect alignment, and all the hard work poured into making something so fragile will be shattered to smithereens…

Inside the echoing cathedral, the workers mutter under their breath, invoking their patron saints for luck. Once, a long time ago, James had not thought much about luck, but since he has learnt the hard way. It was years ago. Since, he learnt the hard way. The scars from where a column collapsed on the construction site that day still etch his skin like shattered lightning. It was all a stroke of bad luck. 

Now, he wishes some of the workers wouldn't walk under ladders, or shatter mirrors, for that would bring bad luck. He wishes one of the stone carvers wouldn't befriend lone black cats or jet-feathered ravens and crow, for that would be bad luck. He wishes the irresponsible sculptor would stop carving mischievous demon-like gargoyles above column heads, for that would bring bad luck. 

But whether he likes it or not, as the workers finally insert the stained glass into its window, the round, stony eyes of the gargoyles watch in silence. 

* * *

The eyes of the gargoyles watch in silence, night and day. They see everything, they observe everyone, day and night, as long as light illuminates the nave through the stained glass windows. 

Qrow has always wondered why so stupidly many windows. Sure, Archbishop Polendina came up with the plans for the building that appeared to him in a dream as if the angels above had whispered it straight into his slumbering ears. Sure, the stained glass panels were a marvel of art and craftsmanship. But tall and numerous windows weaken the walls, forcing Qrow and the stone carvers to tirelessly rework and reinforce the pillars so as to support the weight of the ceilings, its high towers and elegant spires. All that so that windows could look like paintings, even though paintings would be so much less taxing for the walls to bear. 

At least, Qrow can admit large windows let a lot of light in, even at night when the moon is high. The light dapples the floor, illuminating those who come to the cathedral in hushed steps to seek shelter. Illuminating Velvet, who comes to deliver the painted stained glass fragments for James to assemble. Illuminating her timid footsteps, concealed by her heavy cloak, for people would frown and gossip if they saw a young maid, especially one of her condition, delivering glass she painted herself to the church, having been taught by the masters in her family. 

Perhaps people would gossip and frown too, if they saw the imposing shadow Father Winchester’s robes cast over her frail silhouette against the dimly lit backdrop. If they saw their shadows intermingled as they raised their voices ever so imperceptibly, before her skirts flutter like a hastily blooming flower as she dashes away, as terrified as a fleeing hare. If they saw the bruises on her pale arms dappled in colourful moonlight.

Qrow sees it all under the stained moonlight, but he does not gossip, nor does he really frown. After descending from the roof where he was up to feed his namesake birds of bad augure, he only gruffly greets the Winchester priest as he walks past toward the door where Velvet left, his stone carving chisel brandished in his hand like a weapon. 

James sees it all, too. He sees Winchester walk away not too long after. He sees the bruises gradually fade from her wrists the next time he sees her. The bruises vanish - and soon she vanishes, too. James does not know where she went, but at least he knows she is far away from Cardin, and that is all that matters.

Around the same time, the pouch of golden Lien that has been hanging at Qrow’s belt disappears too. Qrow speaks little of it, but having witnessed the sculptor care for the painter girl, James can imagine Qrow had something to do with funding her escape. All the same, without his pay in that pouch, Qrow cannot afford the small room in the small inn he stays at in the growing city while working on the construction site for the cathedral, far away from his family in his home village.

Begrudgingly because of the bad luck that may follow, James welcomes the carver into his humble abode, refusing to let any honourable man, even a harbinger of bad fortune, sleep just under the starry sky. 

* * *

“Did you always know, just because of your name, that you were predestined for this craft? At least the iron part of Ironwood, I mean.”

Having a guest to share simple, hot broth is not unwelcome for James, even though Qrow can be rather inquisitive at times. As he scrapes a last spoonful out of his soup, the metalworker answers with a small smile stretching his lips.

“Essentially. We are blacksmiths and carpenters in the family, hence the name my forefathers chose for themselves. My father taught me the tricks of the trade before he passed. I still have his hammer and some more of his tools, so you could say part of him lives on through my work. I would never have considered any other profession.”

“Isn’t that boring? You know, you make delicious soup, perhaps you could have been a good cook.”

“But was it not always obvious to you that you would be a sculptor? You do show great skill and passion for the craft.”

“No, not really. My sister and I were left to our own devices until Oz and his wife took us in. He was the one who got me into carving stone. And even after that, after he became ill and I had to earn my own Lien, I travelled from city to city and from guild to guild before arriving here.”

“Now I can see why you are so close to those migrating birds.”

“What birds?”

The faux puzzlement upon Qrow’s features, gleaming within vermillion eyes, is rather adorable to watch.

“The birds you feed my bread crusts to, the ones that invaded the attic since your arrival.”

“Your loss for not eating bread crusts,” Qrow tries to snap back, but a slight, genuine giggle tints his snarky tone.

“So what will you do?”

“With the bread crusts? Either eat them or feed them to the birds. Or both… probably both.”

“No… I mean, when the cathedral is completed. When all of this is finally over. Will you stay around Atlas? Will you travel further? Construct more churches, construct castles and town halls?”

“I don’t think all of this is ending anytime soon. Look, Jimmy, people say this construction site is cursed, and maybe they’re right. Last winter, the plague hit us hard, and after that, the scaffolding collapsed and -”

“The whole ceiling fell. I know. I was there.”

“Anyway. My point still stands. We won’t come out of this anytime soon. We may not even come out alive.”

“No need to be so pessimistic.”

“I’m not pessimistic. I’m realistic.”

There is something dreary about the sculptor’s tone, as if after rainy days on end when one wonders whether the sun will return, whether the shadows of the clouds above will ever clear away. But James carves shadows, and has always known that shadows cannot exist without the light.

“How do you keep going while being so… realistic then, Qrow? How do you keep sculpting when you’re convinced you won’t see the finished product with your own eyes?”

“Because I believe we’ll build something that will outlive us.”

Outside the narrow window, the unfinished cathedral stands under the clouds like a scrawny patch of young forest, haphazardly but surely reaching toward the light.

* * *

“The news don’t look good,” James says carefully, studying the frown on Qrow’s features as the other man runs long, calloused digits through his gray-streaked hair. “This is about Velvet, isn’t it?”

“She is staying with an old friend of mine, but she has taken ill. It seems like her occupation as a painter was what kept her going, and now she can’t paint for us anymore, a strange melancholy has filled her days.”

James knows only too well how he can drown in his work sometimes, until his craft is his anchor, steadying him, rooting him. But he also knows she is a painter, and her roots do not only need water to live, they also need colour.

“There must be something I can do for her,” the blacksmith declares. “I will talk to Archbishop Polendina.”

“You would do that for her?”

“I would, as long as it brings her happiness, and it brings you peace of mind. You and Velvet are both exceptional artisans in your craft, and the least I can do to show my respect is help out.”

“You would really do that for me? I thought you didn’t like me.”

“If I disliked you, I wouldn’t have welcomed you into my house,” James sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in consternation as to how Qrow did not realise that. “And I would not have let you stay here for so long, especially with all of your flock.”

“It’s a very nice flock, I’ll have you know.”

“It’s a very enthusiastic flock, especially an hour before the morning prayer.”

“At least they are cuddly in the morning.”

“You know, I was initially wary, for I overheard other workers saying you would bring bad luck. Now, some days at dawn I wish it were bad luck that followed you, rather than birds.”

“Then maybe I should pack my personal effects and -”

“No, I will not make you leave, for I care deeply for your wellbeing. And I will talk to Father Polendina about Velvet.”

“But… What if he refuses? This is about the misdeeds of one of his priests, after all. Would you not like to remain in his good graces?”

James recognises the flicker of worry, the flame of fear that dances in Qrow’s eyes. He recognises the same fire that rages in his heart, but he can be brave, and he can tame it. For Velvet. For Qrow.

“Should I be afraid of his wrath?” the metalworker says after a short pause. “Should I be afraid of the wrath of God? I only hope that Pietro will listen to us and prove, for we are the workers who build his church, and without us there will be no temple for Him. Our sweat and blood are His house’s brick and mortar, and for that reason I believe the Lord above and the Archbishop should be merciful to us and to miss Scarlatina.”

“By Saint Clement, I hope you’re right.”

“Me too. But only time will tell. Worry not, it’s time for us to rest now. Tomorrow will be a long day, especially with your flock’s enthusiasm not long after matins.”

* * *

For the last two score days, James has been waking in the morning to insistent cawing and tapping against his wooden window. Today is no different. Ordinarily, Qrow would rush in and feed the birds, but today James may as well leave his bed early, for he has to meet the remainder of his blacksmith guild at daybreak. Pushing the window panels open, he throws out bread crumbs and seeds on the window sill, prompting a murder of excited crows to flock in and start pecking. 

James knows better than to stay close, some of those beaks having left nasty warnings against his fingers. But today one of the birds hops in toward him, gently nuzzling into the palm of his hand. Its head is surprisingly warm in the chill morning breeze, soft black feathers buffeting softly and iridescently in the golden morning light. He reaches out his palm, and it quickly becomes the avian’s nest, a warm, safe nest it never wants to leave. 

But James, however, has to leave. He should put on his best garments and head out through the still misty, sinuous streets to encounter the rest of his guild. Therefore, he quietly steps into the guest room where Qrow still peacefully sleeps and delicately deposits the black bird into the warm crook of the man’s nest, where it snuggles contentedly with a happy puff of feathers.

Hopefully, Qrow will enjoy the surprise when he wakes up. If not, being awakened by a pecking and cawing bird will be well-earned anyway.

* * *

Days pass, months pass as the moon rises, as the moon falls. The moon is high when Qrow is woken by the sound of pounding, of metal against metal, as violent as a raging storm, as regular as a beating heart. Qrow’s heart is racing at the sound, thrumming at his eardrums as he rushes out of bed, grabbing his sharpest tools on his way to the workshop from where the noise originates. 

Relief floods each of his nerves, each of his veins and arteries as he sees it is only James, working away in the dead of night. The furnace illuminates his features from below, underlining each sculptural muscle, each sharp angle, each supple curve in burning red, in incandescent amber. Ripples race across expanses of sweaty skin as he lifts his hammer again, powerful arms hard at work, ever relentless. And then the hammer falls with a deafening sound, like an inevitability, like the weight of the world comes crashing down, like the craftsmen are the ones who lift the world up or let it fall. 

The mass of metal is still half molten, red, vermillion, almost white under the thundering impact. Sparks fly as the hammer hits still burning metal, briefly lighting up the creases of his brow, frowning in focus, the silver streaking his hair, fleetingly transmuted to gold, the details of his beard, long, lush locks of darkness suddenly sprinkled with light. Rivulets of light flow up the scars covering half of his body, flooding them like an endless river, before the sparks die and the light fades. 

Qrow can only stare in the semi-obscurity, consciously suppressing the strange urge to touch… but as surely as the hammer falls, as surely as the sparks perish and burst into life, James remains focused, perfectly focused on his work, on shaping the piece of smouldering iron to the delicate thickness and curvature of his exact liking. There is a solemn grace as to how his strong fingers assemble fragile glass panels between lines of metal, unbreaking the shards and fragments into a coherent picture where each piece fits perfectly. Unbreaking lines of black, faces of ivory, clothings of cobalt blue, emerald green, ruby red… 

Only when James is done with this particular window section does he bashfully look up at the sculptor, whose crimson eyes travel between the handiwork and its creator with boundless wonder. There is a weight on James’s shoulders that still refuses to fall, that still painfully keeps his muscles tense under expanses of scarred skin. A tightness forms in Qrow’s throat. He had hardly seen the point of stained glass windows before, but now he finds it painfully ironic that James creates beauty from unbroken glass for a living, but he cannot unbreak the pieces of himself, cannot mold the scars that plague his body and mind to his liking. He cannot - but perhaps Qrow can, or at least he can try and help.

“This is beautiful,” he whispers, “but shouldn’t you be in bed at this time? The noise might wake the neighbours, and you need to rest.”

“I need to,” James admits, “but I cannot.”

There are clouds in his tone, there is a tempest barely contained, tears almost about to break out. A silence follows, only punctuated by the furnace’s irregular crackles.

“Nightmares keeping you awake?”

James can only manage a small nod, blue eyes downcast. 

“Come on, Jimmy, let’s put that fire out and get you to bed. You’ll only hurt yourself more if you stay awake.”

“But Qrow...”

“You’re afraid, and you’re afraid to let me know you’re afraid, but that’s fine. I’ll stay with you. I’ll protect you.”

“You don’t have to...”

“But I want to. I won’t leave your side, and I will ward you against any devils and spirits.”

“How would you do that?”

“I ... I’ve heard you crying and thrashing in your sleep lately. I could wake you up if I heard that happening, and told you that it was just a nightmare, that it’s all over, and that you’re safe now. You went through hell and survived once, you don’t have to go through it again every night. Not on my watch. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Qrow adds a wink for good measure, but that cannot dispel the heavy atmosphere in the workshop. However, that may be what exasperates James enough to make him capitulate, tiredly letting the stone carver guide him to his bed. As he throws the covers over his host’s body, he notices the tension rendering the taller man’s back hard as stone. 

Pressing a palm into Jimmy’s back through the thick eiderdown, he tentatively rubs a circle, then another, then another. Then, James pulls the blanket down, allowing Qrow’s fingers to directly massage the damaged skin. It is not beautiful, it is a stained glass window with no meaning, with cracks that are nonsensical, with shards that will never be unbroken back together. 

But it does not mean James deserves to suffer any more. Not if Qrow can prevent it. Not if Qrow is here, helping him heal as best as he can. Even if it takes time. And it takes time, and they cannot tell how long they spend like this, the sculptor kneading the metalworker’s back like he molds hard stone to carve soft skin, shiny hair, and flowy fabrics. Qrow has slipped in under the sheets for warmth and comfort, his breath ghosting against the soft black hair at the nape of James’s neck. Qrow is tired, but he could do this forever, for while he does this, he feels they are safe, unbroken, unbreakable.

“You should sleep, Qrow. I thank you for your help, but you need rest too, and there is nothing you can do to prevent the nightmares from coming back.”

“They will come back, but when they return I’ll be here for you. I’m not letting go of you.”

“You could do that, and sleep in the meanwhile,” James demonstrates, shuffling amidst the bedsheets to hold Qrow in a tight embrace while closing his eyes.

“That’s true. I admire your multitasking.”

Their faces are so close their foreheads almost touch - they cannot see each other’s eyes in the darkness, but they are certain of it, basking in the warmth and the scents that radiate off each other’s bodies.

“Qrow, have you ever taken a wife?”

“Nope. As an orphan, I hardly have any Lien to my name, so I can’t say I’m a good party. And even if I were, I was never… thusly inclined when it comes to fair maidens, if that makes sense...”

“Yes. It does. I was in an arranged marriage for the good of the family business before the plague took my fair bride away, but I can say I feel the same.”

The proximity between them is almost heady, and Qrow feels like he could just lean in, tangle his fingers into Jimmy’s beard, and claim those very soft-looking lips with…

“I don’t know about you, but I also feel tired,” James adds. “You were right, we need to get some sleep.”

“Agreed, let’s rest before the birds wake us up.”

* * *

It takes a few more weeks before the facade is finished, before the stained glass rosace in its ultramarine and crimson splendour can be installed atop the great doors of the cathedral. Inserting the glass panels, petal after petal, is no easy task, and more of James’s hair turns grey throughout the process, and more small scars pepper the tough skin of his arms from shards of broken glass, shards of unfortunate failures, shards of shattered dreams. But when it is finally done, its unrivalled beauty makes it all worth it, ravishing the eyes of the populace and of the saints and angels sculpted below alike. 

Qrow sculpted one of the angels himself, its wings outspread as if ready to take flight. But it never truly took off, shattering to pieces when they first tried to lift it into position above the door. So now he unbreaks his angel, carves weightless folds of silky robes from harsh lines of brokenness, carves light, airy, feathered wings again from hard, cold, heavy stone. James likes to watch him work under the light that filters through the rosace. The chisel carves the stone, and the stone carves the light, causing deep blue and liquid red to flow and coalesce against expanses of stone. Unperturbed, Qrow keeps going, keeps carving the stone, carving the light, and Jimmy keeps watching and marvelling. 

When he starts detailing soft, cascading hair again, when he starts sculpting a chin down to a frail, yet determined bottom lip, only then does Qrow know he will succeed, only then does his angelic creation smile back benevolently at its creator. James furrows his brow, recognising the angel’s face for fleeting seconds. And leaning over to peer at Qrow’s sketch pages, he sees her - charcoal drawings of her, ink paintings of her, from different angles, under different lights, but it is her alright, and each line has that recognisable quality he used to witness only in the stained glass panels he used to assemble. 

Velvet may have had to leave, but part of her remains here always. James, Qrow, and Pietro had found a way. By making her a model for one of the angels, by using her self-portraits to guide Qrow’s sculptures, they have ensured her face and her work will never be forgotten, forever carved in stone right above the cathedral’s entrance.

Then comes a gush of wind, a stroke of bad luck. Qrow cannot hold onto all of the sketches before the breeze disperses them, while James catches some pages spreading across the building’s stone floors. At the sculptor’s beckon, the blacksmith approaches carefully, handing the papers back to Qrow. And then, their hands touch. 

James’s digits linger, emboldened as they catch their chance, as they catch the moment. And seizing the sculptor’s fingers, the metalworker briefly presses his lips against Qrow’s knuckles. It is an unspoken question, an unbroken, unbreakable promise conveyed in a single touch. For a second, the puzzled light in Qrow’s eyes is a hopeful sunrise filtered through glass stained in the soft shade of wine and roses. And the next second, he knows how to answer. 

Tugging on the point of contact between their intertwined fingers, he draws James to him, stealing a last, timid glance at cobalt eyes before their lips meet halfway. The kiss is gentle, clumsy, inexperienced, but it is everything. They pour all passion and precision they have into that soft, simple contact, loving as perfectly and relentlessly as they work, as mold metal and stone and carve shadows and sculpt light with their bare hands. 

At this time, the cathedral is empty, but gargoyles may stare, gargoyles may frown as the light from the rosace dapples their joined bodies, the patterns imprinted on both of them as if they were one. But the two of them do not care, savouring the contact with their lids desperately shut. For they know that as long as their sweat and blood are the brick and mortar to this cathedral, to this edifice of unparalleled beauty that will outlive them to defy centuries themselves, the centuries and the onlooking immortal saints and angels shall treat them with mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: St Clement is the patron of stonecutters. I am not religious and tried to be as vague as possible about anything religious, so if you think I portrayed anything inaccurately when it comes to medieval christianity just let me know in the comments :)  
> Sorry this one was kind of late, to compensate it was also kind of long, so hope you enjoyed :)


	5. Butt of the rifle, butt of the joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: vacation/home for the holidays
> 
> Ozpin sent Qrow to spy on newly appointed General James Ironwood, to verify the man is trustworthy to join Oz's inner circle. However, obstacles stand in Qrow's way. Namely, that the General is very, very straight, and in love with his work to the point of never leaving his desk. Up until the night of the solstice celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: briefly implied sexual content, non sexual bondage

James Ironwood is a tall man. It doesn’t help that he stands very, very, straight. It doesn’t help, because that suggests he must be very, very straight. 

But that’s beside the point. Because Ozpin asked Qrow to spy on James to figure out if he’s trustworthy to join Oz’s inner circle, not to court or date him. Still, the shapeshifter is mildly irked, for it would have been easier if he could just have seduced that handsome man, slipped into his bed, and stolen all his secrets. But Qrow can’t do that, because Ironwood is completely, painfully straight. He’s courteous with Glynda and Camilla, stern and fatherly with Winter, but aside from that he remains focused on his work, in love with his work only, and not even the legs for days of one Qrow Branwen can distract him from that. Sometimes, after days of spying, the shifter wonders if General James Ironwood even has a heart. 

Whatever the answer is, James does not have the heart to leave a bird with a drooping wing and an uneven gait to freeze in the snow outside his window. Picking up the shivering avian in his strong, warm hands, he brings the animal inside, dutifully looking up how to feed and tend for crows. For sure, Ironwood knows how to pick up chicks, Qrow deduces in his feathered form. Which only further suggests he must be utterly, perfectly straight. 

(Little does the General know, the limping creature is drunk and faking, but that’s because Qrow is good at his job.)

James purchases expensive blueberries and strawberries for his unexpected guest, and lets the bird form a nest on his bedside table out of warm Atlas military issue pyjamas and a couple of shiny trinkets. 

Sometimes while he works, he idly pets his feathered companion, sighing quite contentedly while blissfully unaware that the corvid’s piercing red eyes are scanning through the files on his Scroll, searching for any detail that would signal treacherous intentions. Sometimes while he eats or sleeps, James lets the bird nuzzle into the crook of his neck or nest atop his head, allowing Qrow to contemplate just how shiny and soft the strands of grey-streaked black are. 

Sometimes, Qrow wonders what it’d be like, to cuddle up to James in his sleep in his human form, to run his fingers through his hair, to let these strong hands map his human body. But such thoughts are fruitless, for the General is absolutely, completely straight. 

The mission is pretty fruitless, too. But that’s because Ironwood is always at work. Qrow needs to access the man’s terminal in his office and investigate all of his most classified files to determine if he’s attempting anything treacherous or for personal gain - but James never leaves the terminal for Qrow to be able to peruse it from behind his back. Even at the rare occasions when the man’s (admittedly very shapely) butt isn’t in that damn blue chair, he’s controlling the computer from a distance on his Scroll. On top of that, how little and lightly the General sleeps doesn’t give much time for Qrow to sneak into the office while James sleeps. 

That is, until Ironwood goes home for the holidays. 

This is the first time in five months that the General has taken a night off. The shapeshifter doesn’t really know with whom James plans to spend the night, since his files show no living family to speak of, probably with some pretty chick he can pick up in those strong arms of his. Anyway, Qrow is determined to make good use of that time, copying the Atlesian’s fingerprints around his quarters to unlock the doors to Ironwood’s office. 

Once he’s inside, stretching his arms behind his head and his lengthy legs on the desk in his human form, he has to worry about what the password is. Lucky him, he can rely on James’s bad luck, namely that he has to change the password every month and writes iteration on a notebook, from which Qrow stole an older page for his nest. The last version of the password was Penny123. That version is refused. 

Shrugging, the spy types in Penny124, his lips turning into a small smirk as the computer allows him in. 

He’d give anything to know who or what Penny is, he’d give anything for a Penny for James’s thoughts, as Tai would probably have joked. Speaking of Tai, Qrow precipitantly draws his Scroll to send the blonde a message, explaining work duties must keep him away from home during the holiday season but that he still wishes his brother-in-law and the girls very merry solstice celebrations. Then, he waits for Ironwood’s classified files to load and goes back to his work. 

There is a lot to unpack here, but fortunately Qrow can plug in a chip Ozpin gave him to copy all the relevant folders and bring them back to Vale. While the copying process still runs, Qrow sends a couple of blueprints that look particularly intriguing to his own Scroll, zooming and combing through them while rolling and spinning around on the General’s desk chair. 

He finds himself mid-roll and mid-spin when the door suddenly slides open.

“Who’s there?” Ironwood calls out, immediately drawing Due Process. 

“No one, just a little bird...” Qrow croons back, inspecting the newcomer who looks pretty dashing out of uniform in a sharply tailored dark blue suit.

“What are you doing in my office?”

“I could ask you the same question. Weren’t you supposed to be out celebrating, Jimmy?”

“It’s James,” the General replies defensively. “And I’m just here to get some blueprints of the swords we plan to make for my niece as a solstice present, I forgot them here but I’m sure that’d make her happy.”

Qrow is still very aware of the gun pointed at him, but honestly James must feel quite lonely, if he’s resorted to confessing his personal problems and worries to a random thief in his office. 

“Sorry to break it to you, pal, but there’s no way those big swords are gonna fit in that dainty little backpack you drew,” the spy snaps back immediately. 

“You don’t understand, the swords are not to be stored in the backpack, but… Hold on, you hacked into my computer?”

Eyeing the monitor from the corner of his vision, Qrow spins around flamboyantly on the chair to rip his chip out of the computer, ready to shapeshift and leave…

“And you copied some of my data,” James accuses, flipping a chip on his Scroll such that the doors and windows lock under menacing red light, leaving the bird utterly caged. “Give me that chip.”

The scythe-wielder lets out a slow sigh, spreading his arms wide as he puts on a defiant smile. 

“Wanna come and search me, Jimmy?”

He adds a wink and blows a kiss, conscious of the rather adorably flushed General staring at him while Qrow expertly takes advantage of placing his hand before his mouth to discreetly hide the chip under his tongue. 

“It’s James,” the other retorts, gun still in hand, before carefully running checking Qrow’s hands and running his fingers all along the side of his arms to verify he hides nothing in his sleeves.

There is something agonisingly slow about those large, strong hands mapping out the length of Qrow’s arms, even adorably straightening his collar after having checked each and every of its folds. The shifter can sense the warmth of the Atlesian’s palms, slowly seeping through the silky fabric of his gloves and the thin cloth of the spy’s shirt. 

James searches him like he works, like he fights, like he does everything, methodically and meticulously. Qrow inhales sharply as careful hands travel slowly but securely down every single inch of his lean, lithe torso, leaving no corner uncovered, no surface unmapped. Until the General’s fingers symmetrically trace down the line of each of his hip bones, and the shapeshifter cannot help but notice how tight his pants suddenly feel around his groin and how close Jimmy’s hands are, which certainly does not help. 

After thoroughly searching his pockets, both front ones, the tiny one inside the front ones, and the back ones, which appears as an infinite stretch of time, James finally runs his hands down Qrow’s legs, down that near-infinite stretch of space, pressing down each fold and each wrinkle in the fabric to ensure they conceal nothing. Eventually, by the time he gets to checking the shifter’s shoes, Qrow exults internally when he notices the blush creeping onto the General’s chiselled cheeks, showing the man may be made of steel, but his heart is not made of stone. 

There is a cute awkwardness to the way he looks up at Qrow, kneeling down to inspect his socks while face to face with the scythe-wielder’s insistent bulge. There is an electric nervosity as fingers linger around slender ankles and calves longer than they should, rummaging the alabaster skin with timid appreciation, causing the spy to anxiously clear his throat to the best of his ability without swallowing the chip. There is a gentle, almost polite hesitation as the military man voices his hypothesis, barely concealing the tremor in his tone.

“I haven’t checked your mouth, did you hide anything in there?”

“Let’s make sure you check carefully,” Qrow practically purrs with excitement, wrapping his fingers around Ironwood’s tie to pull him back to his feet so he can press their lips together. 

Qrow does not expect his lips to be devoured. Or at least, not so utterly devoured by the supposedly straight man’s mouth, his hot tongue dominating and demanding relentlessly until he gains access and explores Qrow’s mouth just as meticulously as he mapped each plane and curve of the Huntsman’s body. The spy lets out a small moan when he senses the slightest hint of teeth, and when they part, the data chip peeks out from between James’s wet, kiss swollen lips. 

This is what Qrow intends, to make the General think he’s won, to flatter his ego while giving him but a taste, tempting him to lean in for another kiss, tempting him to give in to the gravity that binds them, to the desire that moves them. This is what Qrow intends, and still he is impressed with James’s skills, both at retrieving things with his teeth and at kissing passionately like there is no tomorrow. This is what Qrow intends, and there is no hesitation as he leans back in, joining their mouths again in another eager kiss. 

The spy’s hands tangle soft black hair and cup James’s jaw, ready to catch the chip as soon as it falls out of the General’s gasping lips while the man is too distracted to notice. Melting into the heated, sloppy kiss, James’s eyelids slide shut as his hands travel southward, always southward until they reach the shifter’s behind, methodically moulding those mounds of muscle until Qrow squirms, considering somewhere at the back of his pleasure-addled mind that Jimmy might not be so very, very straight after all.

Eventually, he retrieves the data device, but he only has time to bury it down the front pocket of his pants before James pushes him toward the desk, his strong hands never leaving the spy’s posterior. As iron fingers keenly massage his butt, Qrow considers he may well be the butt of some kind of cosmic joke of destiny, when he could have shared moments like this with Ironwood the whole time instead of watching from afar in his bird form. The shapeshifter still cannot be sure Jimmy’s ever been with a man before, but whatever lack of experience he has is compensated by powerful presence, and who is Qrow to refuse being bent over a desk like that by a man like that…

Qrow expects roughness, dominance, barely bridled brutality in the way metal and flesh hands spread him apart, vivid violence in the way Ironwood’s famous iron… well, Qrow does not expect a different collision of metal against flesh, producing a sickening sound as the butt of the General’s pistol slams against the nape of the spy’s neck, too fast for the Huntsman to even engage his Aura. Almost too fast to hurt, though it does hurt, before the shapeshifter’s legs give way under him, crimson eyes fluttering closed. He’s already lost consciousness by the time he collapses bonelessly into James’s awaiting arms.

Imperturbable after having apprehended and knocked out the thief who dared infiltrate his office on a holiday night, the Atlesian places the limp form on the desk chair to retrieve the chip and crush it to crumbs within his metal fist. With his gloved flesh hand, he delicately pries one of Qrow’s eyelids open to verify soft red eyes remain unmoving and glassy, signalling the spy is still deeply unconscious, before extracting some manacles from one of his desk drawers and binding his captive’s hands securely behind his back. Then he sets out to find the blueprints - he doesn’t have much time, and as much as this has been fun he needs to return to a family holiday dinner. 

* * *

“Why is this man tied up? Is he a holiday gift? But that ribbon is not very pretty...” Penny frowns confusedly, mechanical eyes considering the manacles around the spy’s wrists. “It is shiny, though. If he is a gift, will you put him under the solstice tree with the other gifts, Uncle James?”

“Sure, Penny. You could say so… though I’d better carry him upstairs to a bed, that’ll be more comfortable than on the floor under the tree while we finish having dinner.”

James lets out a deep sigh, still cradling his still motionless prisoner bridal style while carrying him up the stairs of Pietro’s pharmacy. The General hasn't exactly had time to throw his captive into custody, knowing full well he should spend most of his night off with his almost two-year old robot niece rather than filling in paperwork to incarcerate a prisoner. Besides, the spy doesn't seem that dangerous, judging by the fact the stranger had several occasions to get a hold on Due Process and shoot Ironwood or threaten him at gunpoint, occasions that the shifter never seized in favour of… different endeavours. In this case, James doesn't mind keeping his friends close and his enemy closer. He also doesn't mind treating himself with a nicely tied up present for once, a well-deserved gift after so much hard work. 

“But why is he sleeping already? Should he not be staying awake at least until the presents are opened? I thought that was how the solstice holiday was supposed to be celebrated...”

Supporting his captive's weight with his metal arm, James pinches the bridge of his nose in deep thoughts before responding.

“He has been… working all through the holiday night, so he is very, very tired and needs a lot of rest. So that he can rest, we should be quiet, instead of us asking incessant questions. Do you think you can do that?”

She blinks once, twice, then nods vigorously.

“Very good, Penny. Come on, let’s go eat dessert with your father, and then you can open your presents.”

* * *

For a while, James contemplates bringing Qrow a slice of solstice cake, as an apology for the rough handling and subsequent kidnapping. But then, he considers the spy shouldn't have been lurking around his office uninvited in the first place, such that the treatment he received is only fair. 

In the end, he compromises and brings his prisoner that slice at the end of a long cake that no one wants, together with a plate and a spoon. However, by the time he gets upstairs, after discussing tweaks for Penny's lasers with Pietro, he's welcomed by a rather unusual scene.

"Tie a knot, and then take the ribbon piece on the left side of the knot and make a loop. And then do the same with the one on the right," the spy explains patiently to the android girl, wrapping a ribbon around the red and green starry paper that envelops him atop the bed. "And then, make another knot using the two loops. Yup, looks great. Now you can curl the ribbon ends by pressing the scissors down against the ribbon near the middle of the knot and pulling down until the end."

Her tongue stuck out in concentration, Penny does as she's told, forming elegant, shiny loops from the ribbon she tied around Qrow's midsection. Then, she steps back to contemplate her handiwork, palms pressed together in excitement.

"The packaging looks very pretty! Thank you very much, Uncle Qrow… I can call you uncle, right?"

"Sure, kiddo, go ahead…"

"Qrow… as in Qrow Branwen?" James asks from the doorsill, surprise plainly painted onto his features. "The legendary Qrow Branwen?"

"The one and only," the spy drawls back, "though you might be disappointed, with how easily you took me down."

James is now certain that Branwen could have defeated him if he wanted to, if he hadn't been so eager to kiss him instead, for the good of whatever mission requires it…

"Who sends you here, Branwen? Is that Headmaster Ozpin?"

"He wanted me to check you were trustworthy, that you wouldn't betray a secret or use it for personal gain. I must say I had my doubts at first concerning the Penny project, considering how closely under wraps it was held, but talking to your niece right here convinced me it's the most hopeful and wholesome experiment I've ever seen, it's almost cute for a military project."

"Uncle Qrow showed me how to wrap your solstice present," the young robot adds, grinning widely. "I hope you like it, Uncle James!"

The General quickly takes note of the new information, namely that Qrow isn't only a legendary Huntsman and skilled spy, as well admittedly very handsome and flirtatious, but also rather good with kids, including robot ones.

"Yes, thank you Penny. It is all very well done. Now you should go see your father so he can get you ready for bed."

"Yes, Uncle James! Have a good night and a happy holiday!"

As she scampers out in the corridor, James hesitates to get closer, prefacing his heavy, half metal steps with a simple statement. 

"I would like to say I still don't like the way you sneaked into my office, hacked my terminal, stole highly classified information, and tried to seduce me to distract me from your chip."

"And I don't like the way you tricked me and knocked me out, before destroying my expensive data storage equipment, tying me up, and carrying me to a place I don't know for your robot niece to use me as a plaything. I'm just glad she decided to wrap me up in festive paper rather than to tear me apart with her superhuman strength. So I guess we can call it quits."

"Hmm. Maybe for tonight."

"Maybe for tonight, we could continue where we left off?" Qrow suggests with a knowing smirk, prompting the General to tear off the paper covering him before leaning down to claim the shifter's lips in yet another kiss. 

* * *

"Excellent news," Ozpin comments as if to himself, taking a sip out of his mug. 

The files Qrow transferred from Ironwood's terminal are nothing if not promising, the chip having served as backup and decoy while the most important folders had been sent directly from the shapeshifter's Scroll. 

"Hello, Qrow?" The Beacon headmaster says, pressing the button on his Scroll to immediately call his post trusted spy.

The ringtone echoes once, twice, thrice… but other more passionate occupations prevent Qrow from answering, and after a while Ozpin deduces his spy must be spending a very, very happy holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late because I feel like hell. Guess which idiot shouldn't eat banana? Also, guess which idiot was coerced into eating banana? Yeah, I haven't been having the best time in the last couple of days, but hey look I'm almost caught up! 5 down, 2 to go!


	6. Boxes of cardboard, dreams full of furballs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Desperate measures/last chances
> 
> James may be the most powerful man in Solitas, but right now he is at the mercy of a handful of furballs, furballs that thereby legitimately rule Mantle and Atlas. Established IronQrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: minor health problems, fierce feline creatures

James tries to ignore the warning signs. He needs to stay focused on his duties. Only a couple more weeks until the tower is launched, and then maybe he’ll have time to consider everything else. Only a couple more days until the elections are over, and no one will ever have to hear about Jacques Schnee’s failed political campaign ever again. Only a couple more hours until the General’s next meeting with the Council, so Ironwood should really be leaving the house and heading to his office to read over his file and sign his forms. 

So he has to ignore the warning signs. He has to ignore the distractions. He has to ignore his husband trying to rearrange his hair and commenting on the bags under his eyes while he chugs down his coffee, needing the rush that will fully awaken his torpid body after barely three hours of sleep. He has to ignore Qrow’s snarky remarks and the birds he feeds and the shiny spoons he shoves down his pockets while cleaning the kitchen, just for a little more time. He has to ignore the red flags in their marriage for now, only a couple more weeks at most…

In the end, he even has to ignore the pile of cardboard boxes up before the door to their house. He has no time to figure out why Qrow did this, whether as a last-ditch desperate measure in a relationship that cannot be salvaged or as an offered last chance to apologise before the boxes are filled and packed for good… James has no time, for he only has a couple of hours before his next meeting. 

* * *

James’s body is heavy. There is a clamour of protesting metal every time he sets down his right foot, taking another step toward his house, but his flesh half feels heavy too. The shattered moon has risen high by the time he returns home, and it looks heavy in the sky. He feels tired. He feels too tired. But he can survive this. He must survive this. He has survived much worse. 

He has survived losing half his body, it won’t be a couple more weeks of hard work that can stop him. 

He can survive two more weeks. He can survive two more days. Two more hours. He can survive by thinking about right now, about right here, about not worrying about tomorrow just yet, for tomorrow is another day. He can focus on the sound of his heavy footsteps, taken one after the other against the hard asphalt ground. He can focus on his breathing, slow and regular, rattling uncomfortably against the steel parts of him as his breaths leave fleeting condensates of clouds in the cold night air. 

The house is in sight, he can take just one more step, then another, the another. Now he’s at the bottom of the stairs, ready to climb the steps that will bring him face to face with the large stack of boxes still standing before the door. He can do this, survive each step, and the next, and the next. Looking down at his feet, not at the brown cardboard containers. Ignoring the boxes, ignoring the collection of stray adult and infant felines they amassed after a day outside. Pointedly ignoring the mewls of purrs from the furballs snugly fitting and sitting in the piled up boxes… 

James can do it. He can block out the noise, block out the meows, and take one more step, just one more step toward the door. Take one more breath, just one more breath into his cold, parched, heavy lungs. But his lungs are too heavy, his eyelids are too heavy, the world is too heavy on his shoulders, and soon he cannot keep fighting as gravity drags him down, inexorably down…

“Jimmy? Jimmy, can you hear me?” he recognises his husband’s voice, distant through a thick, dark fog.

James has won countless battles, carried the weight of the world, and survived losing half his body, but right now all he can manage is a weak groan. 

“For the Gods’ sake, James, you’re awake. I was getting a bit worried.”

Sensations return to him slowly, illogically. The gentle touch of Qrow’s lengthy fingers holding his hand. The soft, fuzzy feeling of something warm and thrumming at the crook of his neck, near his heart, against his leg...

“What happened?” Ironwood mutters groggily.

“You fainted on our doorstep. You were only out for a couple of minutes, but I was worried when I carried you to our bed and you weren’t waking up.”

Oh, so James Ironwood, General of the largest and most technologically advanced army in Remnant, swooned like a damsel in distress after a few all-nighters in his office. A shameful blush spreads across his cheeks, eliciting an endeared smile from the shapeshifter beside the bed. 

“I… thank you for carrying me inside, Qrow.”

“C’mon Jimmy, you’re not that heavy. If I can twirl Harbinger in one hand for hours, I can lift you and carry you around no problem.”

“Still, I’m sorry you had to do that, and I’m sorry for worrying you. Here, let me make you dinner as an apology -”

“Will you never learn? You don’t seem to be able to take a break from working yourself straight into your grave, so that was your body forcing you to take a break by making you pass out in front of our -”

“But now I already had a break -”

“You were only out cold for two minutes! And passing out doesn’t count as proper sleep.”

James tries to shuffle upright on the bed in protest, only to feel mewling masses of fur shifting and snarling menacingly at him, blue, green, golden eyes widely staring at him before narrowing as if in defiance. 

“And… why did you put cats on me while I was unconscious?”

“That was my way to force you to take a break.”

“That makes no sense, I can easily just… nevermind.”

The General tries to pick up the tabby cat snuggled against his knee to demonstrate, but the creature’s claws unsheathe in reaction, clinging firmly onto his metal arm. Sighing in defeat, he positions the ball of fur onto his tummy, where it promptly curls up into a perfectly circular shape and starts to purr, its vibrating rhythm in sync with the orange kitten by his neck and the black and white three-legged cat perched atop his chest. 

Qrow is right. James will never be able to sit up again, until those dictatorial cats give him permission. For now, all he can do is idly run his fingers through soft, fluffy fur, appreciating the accelerated purrs he earns as a result. Coming to his husband’s aid, Qrow picks up one of the cats, cradling it in his arms as its bushy tail waves slowly from side to side, brushing his bare forearms. James may be the most powerful man in Solitas, but right now he is at the mercy of a handful of furballs, furballs that thereby legitimately rule Mantle and Atlas. 

“So… was that what the boxes were for? To attract stray cats for us to adopt?” James asks.

For a few seconds, Qrow’s gaze is impenetrable, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Yeah. Everyone knows that throwing boxes outside is the best way to catch a cat,” the shapeshifter finally shrugs. “You know what they say. Where they fit, they sit.”

James has his doubts, but for now this is enough. He cannot tell whether Qrow was planning to pack those boxes for good and the cats convinced him otherwise, granting him and Ironwood a last chance, or whether this was always the scythe-wielder’s plan, as a desperate measure to get Jimmy to take care of himself. They cannot tell whether adopting cats will prove more effortful than restful, whatever fates and misfortunes decide to unleash on the married couple and their furball family. 

But for now, they can live through this instant, enjoying this instant, then the next one, then the next one, without worrying about tomorrow, and that is enough. For now, James and Qrow are both here, holding hands and petting cats, and that is enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a shorter, fluffier one, hope y'all enjoyed anyway!


	7. Mirrors of light, rivers of stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow makes James breakfast in bed. Yes, that's the summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: free day
> 
> Warnings: mentions of PTSD

There are dreams that never die. Those were the dreams that kept them going like distant constellations through the darkest of nights, dreams that helped them keep moving even when all hope was gone, even when they thought there was no way to unite the kingdoms or ever stop Salem. Those were the dreams that glimmered brighter than stars even within their jaded eyes, lighting the path before them where there seemed to be no way forward. Those were the dreams that they fought for, the dreams they turned into reality through sweat, tears, and blood. Those were the dreams some of them laid their lives down for, to make sure that those dreams would outlive them, to make sure that those dreams would never die. 

There are dreams that never die. Now that the war is won, now that it’s all over, there are nightmares that never die, nightmares that never stop haunting them. The scars that splinter their bodies and shatter their minds never truly fade, even when the years pass and their skins wither and wrinkle. In those dreams, the reds are as red as they were on the battlefield, the whites are as white as the eyes of those they couldn’t save, those who didn’t make it. In those dreams, everyone is screaming as if drowning and muffled by water, and everything smells like blood and mud and metal. 

Those dreams never go away. No matter how many battles they’ve won, how many wars they’ve survived, how many giant monsters they’ve punched in the face, no matter the fact they’ve faced Salem herself and defeated her and lived to tell the tale. 

They are strong enough to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, but they have never felt as vulnerable as when Qrow wakes to James shaking within his arms in his sleep, still haunted by memories of flesh transmuted to metal, of metal hacked and puppeted out of his control, haunted by memories that never go away. They have never felt as vulnerable as when James cannot sleep because Qrow is thrashing in his nightmares, tears leaking out of shut eyes tainted with shattered moonlight and memories of purple venom through burning veins, memories of those he lost, those he failed to save, those his bad luck and mistakes condemned.

Sometimes they wake up in cold sweat, in hot tears, intermingled and coalesced. But that’s okay. Because they wake up and they’re safe now, and that’s okay. Everything will be okay. The sunlight that drifts through the old curtains is whole, unbroken, illuminating the particles of dust that drift and dance in the weightless air. That’s what those dreams are now, nothing but dust, nothing more than dust. Dreams come man, man comes from dust, and must return to dust. And everything will be okay. 

James knows everything will be okay, because Qrow will bring him breakfast in bed, strawberries always sliced in half, sometimes alongside waffles from Summer’s super secret recipe, sometimes alongside pancakes one of the kids taught him to make throughout their many travels. It’s funny, how those that left them keep living on through things as simple as breakfast recipes, how they keep living on after they’ve returned to dust, and waffles with strawberries are so much more tasty than dust. 

They will eat side by side, sometimes while bickering, sometimes more quietly, sharing heat from warm muscles and thrumming metal under the cozy blankets. The sunlight that drifts in will transmute James’s sleek steel to golden mirrors of light, will irrigate each violent line and each vulnerable curve of each faded scar and each fortunate wrinkle like endless rivers of stardust, and it will all be okay. 

When they kiss, slowly and languidly, they won’t be surprised by the sweet tinge of strawberry of each other’s tongue tips. They won’t be surprised by the soft, slightly chapped texture of familiar lips, and their fingers will know only too perfectly each crease and each fold as they blindly map each other’s bodies, hardened by battle and softened by age. But they will kiss as passionately as the first time, they will love as passionately as the first time, and that is all that matters. 

To Qrow, James is a shelter from the storm. To James, Qrow is a safe haven. Their love is a dream that will never die. It is imperfect, aging, sometimes tranquil and sometimes turbulent just as dust particles drift and dance, but it will never die. And as long as it lives, everything will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to just write breakfast in bed. Thanks to Aaron (Sorkari on here, his writing is amazing and you should definitely check it out) for suggesting this idea. This is very short but it still took a lot out of me, I'm kinda out of words right now. Yay, made it to the end of the week! This particular 'prompt' (non-prompt?) was very late, but we still made it. Thanks for reading, and stay safe xx

**Author's Note:**

> Of course Qrow is a heathen who sleeps like a cat and eats pancakes just before dinner. Hope y'all enjoy :)


End file.
